Hubs saw me coming out of the pantry a couple weeks ago. “Honestly Denise, if you’re going to give Ari your old cookbook, you’ve really got to stop using it. It’s falling apart. Literally. Use one of your other Betty Crocker’s. They all have the same recipes.” He’d learn soon enough those famous last words would come back to bite him in the butt.

Unfortunately, Betty cannot be duplicated or replaced…

Many of my favorite recipes have been in my head so long, I don’t need to look them up when I start cooking or baking. Still, most times I check the recipe for the little things, amounts of soda, baking powder, spices etc. Because I’m usually doubling the recipe.

Crusts and apple pie filling recipes from my best helper, Betty Crocker, 1972…

Sure enough, John was making a double batch of waffle batter, two for us, the rest, waffles for Jovi. Once we’re done eating, I start making Jovi’s. When each waffle is done cooking, I dab on a bit of butter, let it melt and sprinkle a tiny amount of sugar on top, then cut them in Jovi size bites with a scissors. Just like I did for my toddlers decades ago. Our waffle recipe only has a tablespoon of sugar in the batter which makes 3 waffles of 4 squares each. I’ve always found syrup to be messy with little ones, so I just sprinkle a little sugar on top. (Mommy doesn’t know, so Jovi and I just keep this our little secret). A teaspoon of sugar on 4 big squares is not going to hurt anyone. Besides, the waffle tastes so much better. I do the same thing for pancakes and French toast when I make them for Jovi.

On today’s menu, Jovi’s style French toast, cut up and froze in snack bags…

But it was before I made Jovi’s waffles when John frowned, “hmmm, they taste different.” “What? I don’t taste anything different. Did you leave out an ingredient,” I asked? “Don’t think so,” he answered, “I checked the recipe twice since I was doubling it for Jovi. I think the recipe might be a little different. I wish I hadn’t told you to put old Betty out to pasture. Did you give it to Ari already?” No, I hadn’t given the cookbook to Ari, simply put it in a drawer so I’d be forced to start using one of my ‘other’ Betty Crocker’s.

All Betty Crocker’s are NOT the same. Lame evil step-sisters…

The ‘other’ Betty Crocker’s aren’t really mine like mine is. In the last 20 years, every time I found an old, cheap Betty Crocker cookbook at an estate sale or in an (cringe) antique store I bought it. (How can I be old enough to use shit I now find in antique stores? Really, how is that even possible? Seriously?)

There should be pride because I used it so much. But yuck, I’m a slob…

Equally hard to believe is what kind of dire straights Hubs and I were in when I finally got my first Betty. One would think it might have been a shower gift or wedding present. We eloped, so had no shower. Gifts for the newlyweds were few and far between. Our folks (grudgingly, had to keep up appearances) had a small reception for us (cold as freaking ice, though it was only October-not weather related, just coolness in the room) so we did get some gifts. I think everyone knew I couldn’t boil water, why bother with cookbooks? No, Betty Crocker did not join our small family until 1972.

I know I should be ashamed using this decrepit cookbook. But we have history…

We were living in Sioux City. I was slowly learning how to cook, well, because we had to eat. Our stretched so very thin budget allowed eating out at McDonald’s every other Friday (payday for Hubs). Shannon and I would meet John at McDonald’s near Sunset Plaza after he directed the 6 o’clock newscast. It really was quite a treat. I think the 3 of us ate for about 5 bucks. At the time there was only one cookbook in our house. Appropriately named Family Favorites, (it’s got several pages of Dutch recipes, including Saucijzebroodjes, ‘pigs-in-the-blanket’ from Western Christian’s High School, circa 1964 edition. Which is my second favorite cookbook. I still use it religiously! A little delicious Godly humor). I had long coveted Betty Crocker’s cookbook when I saw it in stores. Better Homes and Gardens had a fancy Cookbook too, but it didn’t trip my trigger like Betty. But Betty was pricey and we were so broke. One could easily say we were nearly destitute.

My other frequently used cookbook. Some recipes are in Dutch, yikes…

Funny how we change over the years. I wouldn’t be very excited or grateful receiving an appliance these days. But back when we were in the first years of marriage, I felt like I had won the lottery. When Shannon was about a year old, we were living in a small house in Hinton, Iowa. No furnace in the house, just an oil burner heater (often times we couldn’t afford to fill the fuel tank, leaving us out in the cold). No basement either, so the slab house was unbelievably frigid. We bought a couple of super cheap area rugs which were about as thick as tracing paper. As new parents we were concerned because Shannon was on the floor all the time. And I had no vacuum cleaner. Everyday I’d get down on my hands and knees to pick up all the ploujes (plue-shees, Dutch word for a fuzzy or piece of lint from clothes or socks on the floor or your clothes). If I didn’t, Shannon would offer to meticulously do it for me-afterwards though she’d quickly pop all the ploujes in her mouth. Ugh. Our dear neighbors, Clarence & Ida loaned me their expensive, super deluxe Kirby vacuum cleaner once a week, but that monster weighed as much as I did. Lugging it back and forth from their house to ours was a trip alright. Plus it had so much suction, it sucked up half those cheap rugs. When John bought me a $39.00 Eureka vacuum for Christmas, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

From Family Favorites, authentic Dutch Saucijzebroodjes-pigs-in-the-blankets…

I felt the same way after Hub’s made a trip to a Sioux City jewelry store downtown called Greenburg’s. Heavens no, not for a frivolous piece of jewelry we could ill afford. But a set of new pots and pans! They were having a huge sale. It was called Club Aluminum and came in several different colors. Harvest Gold, Avocado Green, Poppy Red, Chocolate Brown, even Turquoise. John chose Poppy Red and the set consisted of 1, 2, 3 quart sauce pans with lids, a 4 quart Dutch oven and a fry pan. Now if I only knew how to cook. Minor details. I was trying hard by then.

I am a lost cause. Still using Club Aluminum, now Avocado Green…

While the vacuum cleaner and set of pans were necessities, Betty Crocker was not. I was thrilled, absolutely thrilled when John and almost 2 year old Shannon went shopping at really neat department store called Bellas Hess in Morningside and spent a whopping 9 bucks to bring Betty home at last. I poured over that book, salivating over what recipes I thought I was capable of fixing. Not a lot of meals, mostly the baking sections. Cakes and frostings from scratch-always. Pies and crusts too. Almost every cookie Betty had in her repertoire. That cookbook has been a big part of my life for 45 years. I’m not so sure I’m ready to give her up just yet either. Her cousins aren’t made of the same mettle.

Betty, you got a great cream puff recipe, though I use Mom’s homemade vanilla pudding recipe…

There was a great bakery (name escapes me. Carolyn Baczwaski, do you remember this store?) close to a drug store called Scott’s. I think Scott’s was on 7th Street. At the time, Pampers were pretty new and cost about $1.30 per box of 30 diapers. Who could afford such things? Certainly not us. But when Scott’s ran a sale, Pampers were a dollar a box, we’d splurge. What a luxury. Disposable diapers you could just throw away, though we did not use them for everyday. Only camping trips or if we were going somewhere for the weekend. Oh, we still needed to use diapers pins, but no rubber pants, no rinsing out diapers in the toilet. Bliss, I tell you. Anyway, since we were shelling out big bucks on disposable diapers, we’d go to this bakery which was fairly close to Scott’s for a sweet treat. On top of the oak, glassed showcases housing donuts, longjohns and bismarcks galore, hanging on the wall behind the counter rested the cutest collection of ceramic cookie jars. Several different animals, some with salt & pepper shakers. Soon after becoming a mom, John and Shannon stopped at the bakery, chose the lion, who was wearing a crown and gave it to me for Mother’s Day. I used that cookie jar for years! One of the shakers broke during our many moves, but the cookie jar is still around, though packed away right now. I have about a foot of counter space in our little house.

My dusty little lion salt shaker gift-45 years ago…

After John questioned the waffle’s different taste, I dug out our dear family friend, my original Betty and checked out the waffle recipe. Sure enough, even though the edition patent date was just a few years different, some of the recipe’s ingredients had been changed. Silly changes too, if you ask me. They omitted baking soda from our original waffle recipe and boosted up the baking powder. Why? I have no idea. Kickbacks? Powerful lobbyists? I jotted down the waffle and pancake recipes from my old BC and added them to my groovy Longaberger recipe box this week. I guess as we discover minor changes in the dishes and desserts I’ve made for almost a half century, we’ll continue to write down the original way Betty intended her food to taste. Not to worry Betty, I’ve got your back. Those lame younger cousins of yours are off their Crocker if they think we wouldn’t notice…

Most of my favorites are stored in my basket recipe box, usually in my own scrawl…

Late fall 2017. Shannon emailed me a copy of Landon’s tentative Pioneer basketball schedule after she got it from Tracey. This was Landon’s third year on varsity, and we hoped there was one-2 week window where neither week had Tuesday night games. There was. Good news for us. Now Hubs and I could schedule our winter getaway, missing the bare minimum of Landon’s (Drew to the rest of the world) games.

Landon’s junior season at Pioneer, 2017-2018…

This time frame though would prove dicey for a couple of reasons. Didn’t want to be gone from the daycare the same time as Michelle, who’s getting her masters degree and has to spend time at college out east. Not that my part-time worker status of being gone is a big deal like full-time, detail oriented, organized, multi-talented Michelle. But more than one of us gone at the same time is a strain on our crew and a bit stressful for the babies. The babies quickly grow accustomed to seeing the same faces everyday. They may not be able to vocalize this (but they can voice their displeasure when seeing new faces in the room-loudly), but continuity is of upmost importance in their young lives. Nope, Michelle’s time off was just before the 2 weeks I wanted.

Our new minted 1 year old, Jovi, 2018…

The other reasons were just as important. Usually, we would fly somewhere (lots warmer than blustery Michigan) on Saturday after Landon’s Friday game, but the most magnificent baby in the world turned 1 a couple days before we were leaving. Who could miss Jovi’s fabulous first One-der-ful Birthday Party which was going to be on Saturday, the 13th? Not us. So I started looking at flights to Arizona for Sunday, January 14th. I don’t know why I just skipped over Sunday and booked our flights on the 15th. Monday’s in the flying world is considered a business travel day. When I booked our flights, I don’t think Peyton’s pageant date had been finalized. Certainly Shannon world have mentioned or sent details to me as soon as she got them. However, we were still home on that Sunday. Which would prove to be huge and exciting.

Peyton’s head shot for Jackson Crossroads Miss Outstanding Teen, 2018….

The Friday night game was a disaster. Landon sprained his ankle near halftime and would miss the next 5 games while it healed and he did physical therapy. Jovi however was a shining star at her party. Just getting the hang of walking, she crawled-walked her way through her adoring fans, looking too cute in all her glory.

Jovi’s Birthday Party, 2018…

But that busy weekend belonged to Peyton. She owned it. Hook, line and sinker. She had entered a beauty/talent pageant, Jackson Crossroads Miss Outstanding Teen (2 different age groups, 2 title winners). The only part Peyton struggled with was choosing what to showcase during her talent section of the pageant. It’s not that she doesn’t have talent. Peyton oozes talent from every pore of her being. Beautiful, smart, engaging, she sings and dances far beyond her young age of 13 (14 in a couple weeks). She wanted to accompany her dance routine by singing a song, which is nearly impossible. Dancing takes an enormous amount of energy (lots of breathing), leaving her (and the rest of us) breathless. So she went to a studio, recorded her own singing part, then helped choreograph her dance routine. Oh my, this young lady! Is there anything she can’t accomplish?

Peyton, stretching it out, wherever she is….

Suffice it to say, Peyton won. (Easily, hands down, but this is her grandma doing the writing here). The gown she chose was tangerine and stunning. Simply exquisite. Her platform? Gateway Drugs. This summer she’ll compete for Miss Michigan Teen, the winner goes to the Miss America Pageant.

She’s simply exquisite…

About a month ago Peyton attended a weekend orientation for the Miss Michigan Teen Pageant on the west side of the state. All of the state’s winning contestants were there, getting acquainted, supporting each other and listening to an inspirational speech from Miss America, Cara Munn. How many 13 year olds get to meet and greet Miss America?

Miss America Cara Munn and Peyton, February, 2018…

During Peyton’s tenure as reigning Jackson Crossroads Outstanding Teen, she will attend events, serving as a role model to other young girls. One of the community service projects she’s chosen is reading stories to classrooms of elementary students all over Jackson. (Of course, she’s an avid, voracious reader like her Mom).

Peyton getting crowned Miss Jackson Crossroad Outstanding Teen, January, 2018…

Peyton texted me a couple weeks ago and asked if she could read where I work at Felician Children’s Center? I thought it was a fantastic idea, so I gave her my boss’s email address. Peyton and Tracy talked and Peyton was given permission to read to our classrooms, starting with the babies.

I asked Peyton if she needed to stop and change clothes (you know, gown type duds) before I picked her up from school early? No, she answered. (I was a little bit bummed. I thought she’d be all decked out in queen like clothes, but guess she’d be in normal school clothes). I went to the school office (getting buzzed in, I appreciated the security) waited for her so I could sign her out. In walks this regal young woman. Wearing a light mauve dress, heels and her CROWN. (I looked liked I had worked at waste management for a week straight standing next to her). We zipped down to my school, snapped a couple pictures outside before going in. Peyton had several books picked out for different age groups that we talked about on the ride over.

Arriving at school for story time with Peyton, March, 2018…

We stop and talked to Sister Vicky and Sister Carolyn, outlining where we were headed first. The infant room of course. Any jitters, they’re the easiest to please. Friday afternoon and it’s very quiet throughout the school. JPS had a half day, so they’re long gone. Peyton and I head to my stomping ground, which is pretty quiet. Peyton slips off her shoes, sits on the floor by 5 babies. Four of them are about 10 months old. What I wouldn’t give to have a little video of that reading. Let me set the stage. One of them is crying and immediately climbs on my lap. There, that’s better. But this is about 2 of the little guys. They’re sitting right next to each other, not 18 inches from Peyton. First thought that popped in my head is a Neil Diamond song, Desiree-revised a bit. The 2 boys are totally, I mean totally mesmerized with Peyton. As Neil would croon, “it wasn’t so much her words as such as-“WHO IS THAT? WHAT IS THAT SHINY THING ON HER HEAD? CAN YOU REACH IT? NO, I CAN’T MOVE A MUSCLE!” So stinking cute. Really.

Peyton on left vying for Little Miss Michigan, several years ago…

After 2 quick books, PJ and I move to the 1 year olds, who happen to be eating a snack. Pudding cups. Chocolate pudding. Everywhere. “Ah, is there at least one child semi-clean who can sit in the same vicinity as Peyton?” Nope, not at the moment. While they clean up kids, we walk down the hall when Sister Vicki mentions the 4 year olds will be gong outside soon, could we stop there and read to them before they go?

Peyton…

This turned out to be our best stop of the day. Those kids are a riot. Peyton sat in a low chair with a dozen kids crowding up to her, listening intently. After she read 2 stories, lead teacher Tonya pipes up, “anyone have any questions for Peyton?” Six or eight little arms fly up. The best question? “Can you say bad words when you’re wearing your crown?” Answer was an emphatic, “no, I don’t say bad words. With or without the crown.” Next best. “How long have you been dancing?” “Since I was 4.” I searched my phone and found the picture of Peyton at her first dance recital while the kids converged, “oohing and ahhing.” One little girl kept repeating, “I’m 4, I’m 4.” Like why haven’t I started dancing yet? They were polite, inquisitive, attentive and darling.

Peyton’s first dance recital, 2008…

We back tracked to the 3 year olds where one of my first babies from the infant room scooted as close to Peyton as she could. She was wearing hot pink rain boots, and had a couple of cute little smudges on her adorable face. These kids were inquisitive too, but quiet. Although their teacher Lindsay encouraged them, no one dared ask a question.

The 2 year olds room were just getting up from naps, ready for a snack, so Peyton sat at their long, low rectangular table with them. They were much more curious, getting up from the table to walk around by Peyton, touching her dress, or coming up to me as I sat by the window. You could certainly see the difference in their interest spans by their ages. Glenda and Robyn patiently sat most of them down several times, only to have them get right back up so they could walk around by Peyton again.

Dad, Peyton and mom after she won the crown, 2018…

Back to the One’s room, who were now in the process of getting bundled up in coats, mittens, hats, and boots for a stroller ride outside. It’s spring in Michigan after all. Guess we had gotten sidetracked too long with the older classes. But they were easily swayed (that crown seems to have some magical components) and approached Peyton eagerly, sans pudding. She read as they watched her intently. Just as soon as Peyton finished her last book, Autumn and Amanda quipped, “who’s ready to go outside”? A couple of fleeting glances towards Peyton as they marched into the hall, waiting their turn to be secured in the massive stroller. Story time was over, what’s next?

Peyton 2nd from left with incoming winner and outgoing from last year…

Peyton and I gathered our belongings, said thank you and goodbye to Sister Vicky, who insisted on getting pictures of us. (She’s a wonderful, patient Christian soul, but ruthless with her camera-always snapping pictures). I think Peyton was pleased with our afternoon at Felician’s Children’s Center. The babies through 4 year olds weren’t the only ones learning today. Peyton gained insight on the art of reading and storytelling when sharing books with others. It’s harder than it looks. You have all these words on pages, yet need to share the picture pages with the little folks sitting by you. Plus use expression and eye contact. And answer some quirky, sometimes inappropriate questions. Got to be fast on her feet. And smile, always smile.

While I was driving her home, we talked about some of these things because Peyton’s reading again next week at another elementary school. So the youngest group she will entertain is about the same age of the oldest group she worked with at my school. More complex books to practice during the week. Grandpa’s chaperoning her on that excursion.

2018 Jackson Crossroads winners, Peyton & Alexus…

As we walked into Peyton’s house, she thanked me several times for picking her up and going along with her. But of course, it was this gram who got the most out of our afternoon together. After her big win in January, I suggested she start journaling her year of wearing the crown. She might remember big moments, getting crowned, meeting Miss America. But the little moments will seep away after a few years, unless they’re written down. How she laughed when asked about saying bad words, the expressions on the babies faces as she read them stories. The coy fingers that darted and dared to touch her leg, arm or dress while she was reading. The 4 year olds fascination with Peyton when asked how long she’s been dancing. Hard to believe she’s been dancing her way through people’s hearts for a decade already. When you’re a grandma Peyton, you won’t remember the little stuff from way back. Write it down. Even the silly things. You’ll appreciate and enjoy it more than you realize when you’re older. Much older…

Recital cutouts of Peyton from past years in various costumes…

It started a few months after we moved back to Jackson, early 2016. Our good friends, Fred and Diane invited us to a Friday night fish fry. (A tradition during Lent in the Catholic Church). Jackson has a boatload of Catholic churches. According to Diane (born and raised Catholic her whole life) Our Lady of Fátima makes the best fish. Plus it wasn’t very far from our house. Sold. Let’s go. It was very good. And just packed with people.

Our Lady of Fátima, Michigan Center…

This amazing group of volunteers run their fish fry like a well oiled machine. The first time we went, the line was at least 75-100 people long. Hordes of folks hustled past us, going in the opposite direction. To the overflow dining area, meaning their enormous Parish Hall was already full. The line always kept moving. A catchy sign stating, “We don’t want to insult you. Don’t make us guess your age. If you’re over 65, please just say, senior and save yourself a buck.” When it’s finally our turn (didn’t take but a few minutes) the lady running the cash register had a stack of criss-cross dollar bills by her side. Because 90% of the customers are senior couples who pay with a 20 dollar bill. Thus she has 2 ones together lined up to give back. Which we turn over immediately to the next guy for 2 cans of pop. In between these 2 is the most important gal. She’s the lady with the golden tickets. OK, they’re not really gold but we are now entitled one dessert each from the large variety on the table at the very end of the Hall.

A table of religious information on activities as you wait to pay…

But first the food. One guy hands us each sturdy, divided paper plates, then we pick up napkins and silverware (plastic, a bummer but I understand). Our Lady of Fátima’s weekly Lenten tradition serves over 1,000 fish suppers per Friday night, between 4 & 7. Imagine the silverware and plates they would have to hurriedly push through the dishwasher throughout the night. Over and over again. Still, I love real silverware.

Fish-done-right…

First on our plate is an ice cream scoop of great cole slaw. Then there’s 3 kinds of fish to choose from, or some of each. Regular deep fried, spicy deep fried and baked. John says it’s ocean perch. I don’t know, but it’s good. Long, slender fillets, coated with just the right amount of stuff. I say no to the green beans (something about canned green beans sitting in quarter pan of hot water for several minutes, just not very appealing), no to the fries, but ask for a half baked potato.

Turn direction for the condiments. First dude is a royal pain in the butt, which is one of 3 downers besides plastic silverware and not serving real butter for my spud. He’s the man in charge of THE TARTAR SAUCE. He takes his job seriously and does not hand out tartar sauce willingly. Ever. I’m not a big fan of tartar sauce, but the Hubs loves it. Prit-near douses each bite of fish in it, if he gets any. The sauce comes in 2 ounce disposable containers which THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY has in a large box right in front of him. (Pretty sure it’s homemade). John politely asks for an extra container. THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY hems-haws, starts sweating, mutters something like, “I have to be so careful so we don’t run out. But, I suppose. Here.” Insanity. Hubs is embarrassed, holding up the line for a 2 ounce container. I swear the last night we eat there this year I’m gonna hand him a jar of Hellman’s for all the grief we caused him this Lenten season.

Jesus, praying for me…

Funny thing about tonight though. On the way to the church, John says, “I’m not asking for an extra tartar sauce tonight. Guy makes me feel bad. If you aren’t going to eat any could you take one anyway and give it to me?” Should have just said sure, but my finicky taste buds are just beginning to like the taste of tartar sauce. I just sort of hover my forkful of fish above my gigantic 2 ounce crater of tartar sauce and see if any of the flavor reaches my fish. “No problem, I’ll ask for extra tonight and let him embarrass me instead,” chimes the martyr wife. I will say, THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY is consistent. Gives me the same song and dance, trying to get me just to move along. I stand in front of him longer than it took giving birth to Adam, my breech baby, smiling sweetly, and wait. Finally the impact of that 2 ounce extra container weighs in on my plate. I offer him a heady, “thank you, thank you,” and move forward, holding up my hand as a stop sign to his equally big box of tiny sour cream containers. Yes to a dinner roll, no to cornbread, and no to all the free drinks offered if you didn’t spend that extra buck on pop.

Some of the stained glass windows, always 3 in group…

There are approximately 40 tables set up. A couple are rectangular, but the majority are round, each seat 8. We head towards the back of the room, most nights it’s just John and I so we have no trouble finding 2 seats together. Tonight there’s only one other couple at our table. We exchange pleasantries as we sit down. I hand over the extra large, certainly priceless tub, sure to make them run completely out of tartar sauce before the last 700 souls get some for their fish and say, “holy cow, did you hear that guy? I honestly didn’t think he was going to give me extra tartar!” The other guy at the table busted out laughing and says, “you must be talking about THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY! We were just laughing about him!” I thought I was being quiet and discreet, but hey, I’m deaf, so I probably talk louder than I thought. But enough jokes about the guy with the weight of the world on his shoulders over doling out just enough tartar sauce to feed 1,100 tonight. And Jesus thought it was tough with 4 fishes and a piddly crowd of 5,000.

The windows of Our Lady of Fátima…

Because it seems as though God has appointed the Catholic Church, my 2 amazing nuns at the daycare and Our Lady of Fátima in charge of saving my soul since we moved to Jackson. Since Lent starts about the same time as I started working at Felician’s Children’s Center 2 years ago, I’m not really sure if it was an accident or they’re in kahoots together. (God works in mysterious ways). If you’ve read my blog over the years consistently, you’re aware of my issues with organized religion for the last decade, but there’s no way you can convince me that Sister Vicky and Sister Carolyn aren’t concerned about saving my soul and getting me to heaven. I frequently hear one or the other say, “you’re in my prayers Denise. Everyday.” A few days before Lent started, Sister Vicky. She’s in charge of religion and comes in every Monday to tell the babies a story about Jesus, including songs. Jonah and the whale last week, the whale burped him back out, ha-ha. This Lenten season she walked in my room and chimed, “I’ve got a book for you Denise.” Handed me a, 6 Minute Reflections on the Passion, according to Mark. Then added, “I’ll bring in the rest of your Lenten material, The Path to Peace, soon.” She did not forget either. Naturally, she had our names on the top of the booklets, which I failed to notice. Brought home Marty’s copy instead, then had to make sure Marty took my copy home or Sister Vicky would be crestfallen in my backsliding. Nobody else got a copy of 6 minute reflections but me, she knows I need help.

Our Lady of Fátima poster celebrating 100 years…

The second time Hubs and I went to the fish fry, we meandered through the round Sanctuary after eating. The building is relatively new, quite big but not overly pretentious. Beauitful oak, curved pews. As we were admiring the stained glass windows, a guy comes over and explains the 14 stations. Stained glass storytelling really, depicting events leading up to Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection. Fascinating.

Covered statue until Easter Sunday…

Last year as we were leaving we ran into a nice guy near the sanctuary. He starts a conversation and mentions he’s from Detroit but is an organist at Our Lady of Fátima. He woos us in the Sanctuary to spotlight a beautiful organ off to the side of center stage. Sits down and just starts playing for us. Why? No idea. He was very talented and friendly. It must be something on my countenance. Crying for help. Talks about an upcoming weekend concert and personally invites us. But we truly have a conflict (think it was Hubs birthday and the kids were all coming home).

The covered crucifix on the altar…

Still, there’s just something about the people and this church. After the conversation in the car about THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY, I told John I was going to take some pictures of the church for my blog post. He was embarrassed and wouldn’t walk near me when my phone was out. As I walked in the Sanctuary to get pics of the stained glass windows, I noticed the first big statue was completely draped in gorgeous purple cloth. There was a lady standing nearby. I stammered, “Umm, I imagine this has some special significance?” “Yes,” she replied. “All of our statues are covered during Lent. Even the crucifix on the altar. To remind us something’s different, give us heightened awareness that something’s coming.” “I don’t remember any of them being covered the last time I walked through the Sanctuary though. It’s quite noticeable, think I would remember that,” I replied. “It’s only the last couple weeks of Lent. You probably walked through during early Lent last year,” she said. After I walked through the circular Sanctuary, snapping pictures we had a 20 minute conversation with her, though I didn’t get her name. (John joined me by then because I had put the camera away). She lived in Red Oak, Iowa for 3 years early in her marriage, and had just finished taking care of her grandchildren for a week while her daughter traveled on business. Grandma was pooped but exhilarated. Talked about how much more we worry about our grandchildren than we worried about our kids when they were little. She knew exactly what I was talking about. Strange. All in all, my experience with Our Lady of Fátima has been an incredible one. But I’m not ready to get any rosary beads just yet.

There’s a lot of stained glass in this circular Sanctuary…

Let’s do the math. To round things off, we’ll call it an even thousand suppers per week. Again we’ll say the average cost is 9 bucks. This year I believe that’s 7 Friday’s. (They don’t serve on Good Friday, but do have their last supper (no, it’s a different one, nada to any last supper humor attempt) the Friday after Easter. All help is volunteer. Let’s round it off $58,000 dollars. I’m not very good at costing food out, so I could be way off, but let’s say 4 grand (which I feel is generous) a week for the actual cost of the food. Leaving about $30,000 profit. For the love of all that’s holy, please, please spend an extra 30 bucks a week on Mayonnaise, mustard and pickle relish for THE TARTAR SAUCE GUY. Dude, you gotta lighten up. I fear for your sanity if you have to go through this ordeal for every other person another 7 Friday’s in your life. You’re not getting any younger…

First the disclaimer. No where on my resume as grandma does it state: “yeah, she sure knows what she’s doing in the statistics department.” Three years ago, as a freshman in a very large, urban high school, Landon made the varsity basketball team. You would have thought this delighted me, but I was less than thrilled. Skeptical even. I visualized Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) sitting the bench for the whole season as opposed to being a ‘star’ starting on junior varsity.

But I can be wrong occasionally. Yes, occasionally. Landon actually played quite a bit that season and had a pivotal impact on the team. (Really no surprise there. He’s had a basketball in his hands since he was 3. And made exceptional shots since then too).

I never just decided to keep track of how Landon was doing in every game. It simply morphed from loose scraps of paper in my purse during the first couple of games to this dorky little notebook that I dread seeing coming to an end. (I’m not ready for his high school career to end. How about a do-over)? Yet I dare not change one iota of my own quirky way of being Landon’s statistician through the rest of high school either now. Can’t risk jinxing anything.

Landon’s junior season of basketball is over. I don’t know if he feels as anticlimactic or a bit dissatisfied about the year as I do. There were many changes, ups and downs. A new head coach (verdict is still out as far as I’m concerned, not really impressed) new players, some good, some not. Got to mention a player that really had an impact on the Pioneer team. He transferred from New Mexico I think. His name is Kasean, a junior like Landon this year. He and Landon clicked on and off the court. Kasean’s (Kay-son) good, tough underneath, has a nice jumper, and surprisingly accurate from the 3 point line in the corner. He’s tall, maybe 6’ 8” and slender. He’d look so much better (as would I) and play a little tougher if he’d take 20 pounds from me. But that’s never the way these things work. I look at cake and gain weight, Kasean eats the back of a pickup bed full of pizza, plays basketball for 20 minutes and is down 4 pounds. Just shoot me now. Like most beanpole guys, his strong suit is not dribbling down the court. Just too much space between his bounce and the floor. I think Pioneer might be a better team next year. The weirdest thing about Kasean is he reminds me of my Dad. It’s his thumbs when he runs. He holds his thumb exactly like my Dad always did (though Dad was not running of course).

I guess I really wasn’t ready for this season to end. Big surprise there. After missing a couple weeks in January while we were in Arizona, I was so anxious to get back in the basketball saddle, while Landon was in the middle of healing a bad ankle sprain. Good news, I missed nothing when we were gone. Bad news, he couldn’t play for another week after we got back. Long drought, though the Pioneers won 2 of the 5 while Landon was injured. When he did come back it was with limited minutes for another week.

So getting back to my lacking stat abilities. I’ve been known not to mark Landon’s missed shots, turnovers or fouls (though he has very few, I really hate writing them on his sheet). I do a little better with assists, rebounds, and steals. But I never miss any of his point totals. Ever. Until I did just that. Had him down for 28 in a superb game (which we lost), when evidently he scored 31 points. What has happened to my world? I’ve been right as rain in his scoring when the paper’s been wrong about his point total more than once. Every year. But somehow I missed an amazing 3 pointer during that Skyline game. Damn. Need to get my mojo back before AAU starts in a few weeks (though none of those games goes in ‘the notebook’-that’s only for his high school games).

At the end of the regular season for his freshman and sophomore years, both ending with the Pioneers as Conference champs, tournament play, districts and regionals kept their season going for another couple weeks. This year with a record of 500, it was one-&-done once the tourney started. Not a good way to end the year. The good news is the team that beat us in Districts is still in the running (and we’ve had their number for the last couple years). Hope they go all the way. Landon has some good friends on their team.

I don’t know how to average his point total per game exactly. Oh, I should add up his points for the year, divided up by the number of games he played in. But that doesn’t seem fair or very accurate. With 32 minutes in each game, when Landon played 28 minutes or more, he averaged 22 points a game through 9 games. Pretty incredible right? In 4 lopsided games, playing 20-22 minutes he averaged 19 points. The reason behind these games is because we were so far ahead, there’s no reason to keep any starters in. And it’s the right thing to do. Let others on the team get some much needed playing time. Rest the work horses and save them for when they’re really needed later. Through 3 games he was on limited minutes or restricted by the Doc to go easy on that ankle. In those 3 games, playing less than half the time, he averaged 9 per game. Not bad. If I double the minutes, his point total would have probably been somewhere between the 19-22 range. Maybe it doesn’t make much difference. So taking his total points for the year, divided by 16 games, (he missed 5 games with the ankle) his average is 19 points. I believe that’s up about 5 points a game since his sophomore year. Nice. Dude.

After a couple weeks rest, Landon will play AAU (Amateur Athletic Union-a travel basketball league with tournaments all over the US during the spring and summer) for some lucky team for the final time in the 17 & Under division. We only attend about 3 tournaments per season. The style of play is different, more showy, more dunks, not as many set plays. But it is a lot of fun to watch. They sometimes end up playing 3 or 4 games A DAY, so it’s exhausting. And I’m only watching and keeping track of L’s totals. But with all the hoopla (big time college coaches from all over attend, watching certain players they may need in the future). It all starts with a cunning guard, leading the way down court. Without turnovers, making amazing passes, assists, taking good shots when the time is right and feeding other players, making them better too. An amazing point guard named Landon…

Ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention. Seeing is believing. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate. Get your ticket for the greatest show on earth which is about to begin. Never before seen by the general public. Be one of the firsts. The lucky few to view. All for the price of one thin dime. The line forms here. No pushing or butting in line, there’s room for everyone in the tent.

The most incredible stained glass window in Notre Dame, Paris, 2017…

I have a follower. Not in a scary-stalking way. My one and only blog fan. I know, I’m as surprised as you. There’s one soul out there somewhere who patiently waits, then reads my posts. And comments on every post. When he’s able. My blogging app tends to be a sensitive wench. Occasionally won’t allow me to add pictures before I hit publish or allow my adoring masses to comment. I mean my one guy. He’s not on Facebook and I can’t convince him to join, if but for the single reason to read my blog on it. I’ve told him several times, he’s seriously missing out on the best part of my blog. The comments on Facebook after I post a story. But the neat comments have not been enough to entice him. I guess he routinely goes to Storyteller from a One-Stoplight-Town to see when and if I’ve posted a new installment.

Starting in back, Shirlee, Char, Pam with me in front. Notice how crazy I’m holding my left hand, so John’s class ring is visible. Ha-ha…

I believe my one fan deserves a name don’t you? His name is Paul. He’s read every one of my stories. Twice. I’m not kidding. (Dude is a glutton for punishment). This is my 190th post. (Hard to believe. Never thought I would write this much or this long. Some of you are now pleading, please stop for everything that’s sacred. Sorry, no can do yet). Paul then started all over and read them again. Twice-as in 2 times. I’ve gotten to know him as a friend through his comments which are kind and insightful. Posting comments on a blog post (not on Facebook) is nothing short of miraculous. I know because I always try and answer Paul’s comments. Sometimes I’ve answered him and hit publish, the whole comment just disappears into thin air. This has happened to Paul so often, I wonder why he even bothers anymore. Very frustrating. It’s so much harder than commenting on Facebook, yet he persists. (Thanks Paul)

I LOVE this picture. My Dad, snoozing after supper. I stuck one of my dolls in his arm, 1960…

But it was one of Paul’s casual comments a month ago which caused me pause. He’s muddled his way through my blog (for the second time) from June, 2014 to the end of 2017. Approximately 180’s worth of boring, angry, mundane, sad-sack, misspelled words, bad punctuation, piss-poor sentence structure posts, with just enough lightheartedness to stop him from chewing off his own arm out of sheer, tear worthy boredom.

Shannon on tippy toes giving my dad a kiss, 1973. She loved my mom and dad so much…

It all started with that dang Facebook challenge to post a black and white photo once a day for a week. Pictures without people or nary a word of explanation about my life. Just about killed me. (Thanks again for that Anne. But this time I really mean it). First I couldn’t come up with a decent picture worthy of no explanation, however after day 3, I was dreading day 7 because I was not near done with pictures about my life. Since Paul is not on Facebook he never knew how crazy this simple challenge made me. Here’s his comment about my story, My life-1 Snapshot at a Time. From Paul: “enjoyed the picture show even though I had already viewed at least 75% of them.” (Ouch) He knows and remembers.

Josh was a dedicated biker, with or without clothes, 1977…

Depending on my story, if I’m recounting something that happened when Shannon was 10, I start searching for an accompanying picture. As soon as I spot an appropriate picture, that’s the one I use, instead of looking for another 15 minutes. I’m not very orderly with my scads of pictures. I have boo-koo albums, all titled. The boys, Early days, The Falls, Jovi, and so on, but still it seems like I’m searching forever for a certain picture that’s already in my head. If it’s not in the right spot, it means I’ve got to go through all 4,000.

Great picture of the Hubs in 1978, Spencer, Iowa…

Thus I’m doing another story about my life in pictures. To be sure I’ve never used any of these pictures before, I should carefully go through each story, documenting each photo so there’s absolutely no chance of any repeats. Now that’s really a challenge. Not gonna happen Paul. I’m lazy, and if I start reading my stories from the beginning again, well that’s just not time I have right now. Besides over half my stories still make me cry, no matter how many times I’ve read them. Makes me an emotional mess. Not always a sad cry, just a strong memory inducing moment. Don’t know if I’ll ever get over that part of writing. How powerful what I’ve written still makes me feel. Not the power of writing, but the emotion of the memory. Yawn, sorry.

Dad, surrounded by a mountain of empty beer cans. Sure he used this shot in his prison ministry…

Since my first story about snapshots of my life, I thought maybe for the next installment, a theme would make better subject matter. Perhaps places I’ve been for one, early days, my children, grands etc. But the pics I’ve picked here are just a mish-mash because I’m trying to use never before seen pictures to please my whole fan base. Of one. If this weren’t so pitiful, it would be funny.

One of my favorites. Peyton’s first pair of pointe shoes a couple years ago…

Now I’m gonna backtrack and insert some goofy pictures with short captions to make this somewhat tolerable. And thanks Paul from the bottom of my heart for giving this old gal the time of day. You are unique and I really appreciate your faithfulness…

Good grief, it’s Freddy Krueger. Alas, it’s only me after nose repair (Hubs broke unintentionally showing me a wrestling move) 1967…

I’m not very good keeping up with the times. My list of likes (horribly old-fashioned) and dislikes (pet peeves) are long. I’m somewhat distrustful, don’t use debit cards, won’t utilize online banking, (yes I’m the freak in line still writing an actual check for my groceries at Meijer). I’ve gotten to the point with my cell phone I’ve blocked more telephone numbers than the total number of people I have known in my entire life.

Mom reading the Dubuque newspaper in New Vienna, Iowa, 1975…

I’m a novel reader. I have enough reality in my life so I’m not drawn to non-fiction. I prefer books for escapism. (Calgon, take me away). Exciting suspense, psychological thrillers, cops after serial killers, lawyers and courtroom genre. Get this, I still like holding an actual book while I read it. Quaint but Neanderthal right? There’s something so invitingly personal about having a real book nearby. I’m much more likely to flip my book open and read a few pages waiting for my clothes to dry for 10 minutes before hanging everything up than I am about opening one of my iBooks. Not gonna lug my iPad downstairs. Why is that? Same reading material. My iPad gets updates all the time. Am I so old school that I just refuse to ever update me? Afraid so on many fronts.

Summer in Davenport Iowa, 1985. I read outside, not weed…

I have some serious doubts about the longevity of newspapers. Pretty sure they will be obsolete in another decade-or less. Realistically I understand. All the news is at least hours, if not days old by the time the ink dries. Big stories, true or false are on the Internet instantly. Why would anyone still subscribe to a newspaper in this day and age? Me-me. Notice, I raised my hand. Yup, I still get one, though it’s changed so much during the last few years, I don’t even know why I bother. Biggest reason are the store ads. How can Meijer’s biggest and most ardent fan make one of my famous lists without pouring over their weekly bargains? Oh sure, Meijer offers the weekly ad right inside their door, but I need more time to peruse than that. These shopping trips cannot be rushed all helter-skelter.

Now our paper is about a third the size it was not many years ago. It’s unheard of to have any local feature writers. Used to look forward to a couple of writers on the west side of the Michigan. Tracy Lorenz is a sarcastic, genius humorist. And there was a gal about my age who wrote once a week about motherhood, marriage, being a grandma etc. Loved her column, but cannot for the life of me remember her name. She had 2 sons, one lived in Viet Nam, one in Maryland. Huh, that’s just frustrating as hell.

Guess I’m stuck on newspapers because Mom was an avid reader. (And like a book, I love the feel and rustling sound of a literal newspaper in my hands). For quite a few years, Mom got daily papers from The Des Moines Register, The Sioux City Journal, and The Sioux Falls Argus Leader. Plus weekly editions from The Doon Press (don’t ask) and of course our hometown paper, The Rock Valley Bee. Mom loved keeping up with the best sports writers and editorial pundits. Me, I’m in it for the comics and obituaries. No shame, no guilt.

Dad in the mid-60’s…

About 5 years ago, my then daily paper, The Muskegon Chronicle published a full page ad, listing all the reasons for the changes that were imminent. This next step in newspaper publishing actually included 7 large newspapers in Michigan. Regular subscribers would be offered some options. Receiving ‘real’ papers on T-Th-S, Th & S or just Sunday every week. The rest of the days the news would be available online, or you could buy hard copies on newsstands, grocery stores or big gas stations. Since newspaper popularity has dropped seriously and subscriptions were at an all time low, this was accepted by most everyone under 50. At the time I was Parish Visitor for our congregation whose average age topped well over 80. Gospel truth. Guess what? Many of them had no internet service or desire to read the newspaper on a phone as big as the palm of their hand. Most still used landline phones. (No, we stopped that madness 8 or 10years ago. See, I can be hip).

My idea of reading the business section is Dave Ramsey’s Sunday column which features practical answers to questions about managing money, budgets and becoming (and staying) debt free. Why a business article at least 8 or 10 years ago (and not Ramsey’s) has stuck with me since is still worthy of head scratching. The article was on how big box stores track customers and our buying habits. Well, I’m a shopper, maybe that’s why I started reading. The big box store example they targeted was Target.

A 16 year old girl, alone and scared out of her mind was shopping at a Minneapolis Target. She bought a couple items, zoomed through the checkout and left. A couple weeks later, her 40 something dad is going through the mail and noticed an envelope from Target. Opens it to find a letter and some coupons. The letter was upbeat and congratulatory. Something like, “at Target we know how excited you are about your upcoming bundle of joy! We want to help! Here’s some coupons for 20% off to start your layette. Congratulations from all of us at Target!” Awkward. Miss-16-year-old-daughter had not yet found the right words to tell her parents about her pregnancy.

I don’t know why I felt so bad for the girl and her dad. Bad timing. But it should not have been Target spilling the beans. I was surprised at my anger and disgust for all things Target after that. Oh, I know this happens at all the big box stores, but somehow this teen pregnancy, and the way her parents learned the news hit me hard. Wonder what happened to that pregnant teen? If she chose abortion, adoption or decided to keep the baby. But from that day forward I chose to no longer shop at Target. Petty I know. But petty I am.

And I’ve stuck to my guns all these years except twice. About 5 years ago, Shannon sent me a Christmas wish list for Peyton. (Landon was easy, expensive sports socks, no list needed). Peyton wanted this big Barbie head to do makeup and style Barbie’s hair. On sale that week, wait for it-at Target. Ugh. I breezed in, bought the Barbie head and checked out, leaving with my one item. Learned a couple months later, my credit card had been compromised. Where? Target. Oh, for the love of pete.

Another happy generation of readers. Jovi, 1…

Haven’t been back to Target until this week. For Christmas, one of our daycare moms gave each one of us a gift card, which was very thoughtful. The gift card was from Target. Hmmm. Now I could have given it to someone as a gift, but I didn’t. Decided recently since I was running errands, I’d stop in and find something to buy with that card. Walked aimlessly around until I found the book section. One of my favorite authors, John Sandford had a new Virgil Flowers novel out, finally in paperback. OK, there’s 9 bucks gone. I buy each baby at daycare a book for their first birthday. Usually a Dr. Seuss rhyme-sing-songy-thing that’s fun for their parents to read. Meijer sometimes have them on sale for about 5 bucks. Wouldn’t you freaking know. Target had a whole end-cap display, literally filled with thick-cardboard-coated-Dr.-Seuss-books. Priced $3.50 each. Really? You’re testing me here, right God? Needless to say, I bought my daycare birthday babies a year’s supply. No, wait it gets worse. I’ve been practicing with my 1 year old great granddaughter Jovi-where’s your nose? Where’s your ear? Bought her every appendage Dr. Seuss book they have. What can I say? Wretched Target store. Having an awesome sale. And one-weak-shopper-who-loves-books. In my defense, I spent cash so they can’t track me. And I was wearing my tinfoil cap…

Jovi’s own little library at our house. Thanks a lot Target…

Hard to believe I’ve been changing diapers for 2 years already. I mean besides my kids and grandkids. Changing diapers at work though make up such a small percentage of what I do, I’ve got to tell you, I was totally unprepared how I feel about this job. Not only the job I really enjoy, but more how I feel about the babies.

Can’t show any babies from work so here’s one of Shannon with my Dad in 1971..

Some of the first babies I took care of will be turning 3 soon. I had no idea the huge impact they would make on my life. Watching as they start holding up their heads during tummy time, cooing, smiling-drool included. Always. Rolling over, first baby foods, transferring toys from one hand to the other, sitting up, sippy cups, the list is endless. Then comes the scariest 2 months. Usually after they’ve mastered crawling. They start pulling themselves up on anything nearby, your moving leg, the gate to the kitchen, another-wobbly-almost-walker. Quickly changing from hanging on for dear life, to just letting go, whether it’s appropriate or not. Yikes. A few spills, bumps and bruises. This scary time is kind of hard to be around, but it’s a big part of their development, and we can’t impede it, but I sure set them down a lot. Only to have them get right back up. As it should be.

Joshua and Daddy in 1976…

I was surprised by the strong feelings these babies invoke in me. Part nurturer-protector-advocate. I’m all in where they’re concerned. Oh they can be frustrating at times, like any parent knows. Teething, runny nose, earache, maybe awake several times during the night so their day is prone to be more fussy-filled. We all have those days, but babies can only convey their displeasure, pain, frustration or lack of sleep one way. Crying. Loudly. To. Get. Your. Attention. Now.

The legs-the bottle-the rubber pants! Adam, 1980…

When I started in the infant room at the Daycare/Preschool/Montessori, we had 6 babies. It wouldn’t be long before we had our full quota of 12 babies (and a long waiting list. Yes, we’re that good) in the room most days. One of the first new babies after I started working was a little brown eyed boy I’ll just call ‘EM.’ I’m sorry I can’t show you how cute he is but you understand the importance of confidentiality. Trust me, he’s adorable. EM was in our room for about a year, so went through all the exciting, exhilarating, scary, cute “firsts” most babies experience.

EM was brought in everyday with an older sibling tagging along who would then jet down the hall to one of the preschool rooms. He was maybe 3-1/2 at the time. Our staff lunch room is right next to the double doors which lead outside to the playground. Each class is suppose to line up quietly by the door, waiting for a teacher or aid to open the floodgates, I mean door. One day I was on my break when EM’s brother was horsing around, eager to run off some pent up enegy. As he’s goofing off, his eye caught mine, sitting at the table. His eyes got big as saucers, a frown appeared and he said accusingly, “what are you doing here? Who’s taking care of my brother? You can’t be in this room. Go back to EM!” The protective older brother. I hastily explained EM was just fine, the other gals were taking good care of him.

The exquisite Ari, 1994…

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, as workers, we don’t have favorites. Some babies care not which one of us holds, feeds, diapers, cuddles, rocks, or plays with them. They soak up the attention from whomever is taking the time to fill their needs at the moment. But. There are other babies who gravitate more towards one worker. Don’t know why. Maybe we remind them of someone in their short lives already. All my co-workers have experienced this several times. EM was my first. He chose me. He liked everybody, but for some reason I was that special person to him.

The Handsome Hoopster, Landon and me in 2000…

The babies invented a quirky way to let you know “you’re IT,” for them. We have this plastic covered, foam turtle which is about 4 feet in diameter. One of the babies will seek help from a couple of their cohorts. All slyly get in the turtle whose side is about 6 inches high. One casually starts snapping their chubby fingers while they belt out that old Grease tune, “You’re the one that I want-woo-woo-woo, you’re the one that I want.” The babies have applied for patent rights, but the idea has been stolen and renamed flash mob. I’m here to tell you, it was our babies in the infant room where it all started. Truth.

My talented singer-dancer, Peyton 2004…

When I think of those extra special moments since I started working, one that stands out was with EM. He was 8 or 9 months old and I was giving him a bottle and rocking him to sleep. He was laying in my arms, drinking contentedly and getting very sleepy. I was quietly caterwauling one of my-off tune-songs when I felt EM’s little arm, which was behind him on my back-patting me. Pat-pat-pat went his little hand. Makes me cry to think about it. (Although reflecting back, EM very well might have been trying to cover my mouth, but it was out of his arm’s reach. Poor baby).

Darling towhead (like his daddy was) Graham in 2010…

And then there’s the head butts. EM was the first to give me one, but he hasn’t been the last. This is explained somewhat like butterflies who just know how to migrate 6,000 miles in the right direction. Weirdest thing. I’m always busy tending to the needs of another baby. EM would just crawl up to me while I’m in a rocker or standing and gently head butt my lower leg. I glance down, “I know you’re busy, but um, don’t forget about me,” he’d seem to say with a small smile. How is it that at least a half dozen babies since EM have done this to me daily after they’re about 9 months old? Some kind of kinky secret baby code?

But as time goes on, we notice the older babies are getting bored with our toys and room. They’re really ready to move on to the next room, The Wonderful Ones. Engaging toys, stairs to practice on, (yikes) tiny grocery carts to push around, more complicated gadgets for slimmed down fingers. We start slow, letting them go over for a couple hours at a time. We have an adjoining door with a small window, so we can see how they’re doing. We dare not go in because they usually start crying when they see one of us until they’ve been there a few weeks. Then suddenly it’s the other way around. They don’t want to be in our room anymore-boring. Circle of their young lives already.

Great granddaughter Jovi on her first birthday checkup…

I don’t venture out in the halls much. I’m in our room, when it’s time for my break, I walk to the employee lunchroom, heat up my food, eat, brush my teeth, use the restroom and it’s back to the baby room. Period. Once the babies have left our room, I don’t see them often. After they move, maybe a couple months later, I can walk into the One’s and nearly get knocked over by squealing toddlers, giving hugs. Which feels absolutely worth it’s weight in gold. This feeling lasts the entire day.

The Hubs, John in 1948…

EM has been gone from our room a year now. He recently turned 2 and graduated again to the Toddler room down the hall a bit further. I haven’t seen him in 3 or 4 months. I occasionally ask his teacher how he or one of the other toddlers who were my babies are doing? Last week I was heating up leftover spaghetti for my lunch. EM’s teacher walked in the kitchen to get something from the freezer. Glenda had 2 kids with her (not EM though), one who was in our room. He gives me a shy smile, nothing more. I offer to carry the snack back to her room while my food is still in the microwave. As we walk through the classroom door, she takes the food and I scan the room. There’s EM, valiantly trying to let someone squeeze into a 2 toddler seat when there’s 3 of them. He looks up and spots me. His face breaks into an ear to ear smile and he runs full force into my arms. Not a second of hesitation. (Oh, I know her, she loves me. And I still love her!) The best. Thee. Absolute. Best. After being gone from my care for over a year.

Mom, me 8 months, and Mona in 1951…

We got a new baby not long ago. A stunning baby girl. So tiny. Her mom comes to visit and was talking while she fed her baby. “What is that song you sing about Sixpence,” she asked? “I never heard of it before. I love the simple tune, it’s very comforting.” (She was very kind not to mention how horrible I sound since I can’t carry a tune, and I’m deaf). I explained about my antique toy, Sing a Song of Sixpence Pie and how the song was sung to me when I was little, then I sang it to my kids. Now I sing it to our babies. Mom then said, “Denise, I want you to know I hope you’ll sing these songs to my baby.” I assured her I will indeed sing all my songs. Another ‘aha’ moment. New mom will never realize the significance (to me) of her nonchalant request to sing to her precious baby. Doesn’t get any better than that (besides the back patting, head butting, or leaping into my arms-a year later)

My antique (1953) Sing a Song of Sixpence Pie…

The ‘crew’ in our room often talk about the importance of our job. Though the babies will not remember us after a while, we realize the impact they have on us while they’re in our care. I did not however, realize I might actually have a somewhat lasting impact on any of the babies. Over a year later. Adding another layer to the meaning of my life. Yes, that was huge. Thanks EM…

Mom was meticulous about most things. Everything from our spic & span house, her sharp matching outfits, her snow white work uniforms, which were always ironed with perfect creases, to the high polished sheen of our oak dining room floor. Washed the windows, inside and out-constantly. Dusted the floors on hands and knees daily after shaking out all the rugs.

Mom’s beautiful dining room. You could eat off her floor, it was that clean…

She kept an old ace bandage box, separated by tiny dividers with an envelope in every section. When she and Dad got paid and cashed their checks, much of the money went into one of the sections of that old-falling-apart-box. IPS, De Boer’s station for Mom’s gas, fuel oil, Ver Berg’s station for Dad’s car gas (don’t ask), tithing for First Reformed, grocery money, phone bill. She wrote some checks but the majority of their bills were paid in cash. And always early.

Mom and me in 1957…

Still, I was dumbfounded when I started cleaning out their house after she passed away in 2004. She was a bit of a hoarder, but obsessively neat. A terrific saver, stashing money in the strangest places. She once hid a couple hundred dollars in the clothes dryer, promptly forgetting about it. A few days later while doing laundry suddenly remembered the money. Raced to the dryer to find only damp clothes, then screamed at Dad to run outside. Sure enough, 20 dollar bills were flying all over our back yard. She often hid money in pockets of clothes, coats and in books, so we carefully screened everything before deciding what to do with something after we lost her. And yes, we found several hundred dollars.

A Christmas gift of my outlined hand, a potholder perhaps…

Mom was an avid reader, always eager to learn more and studied our set of World Book Encyclopedias religiously from cover to cover. Yes, every volume. Think: the first google, everything you needed to know-after your fingers did the walking. Soaking that knowledge up, when she usually had to force me to look something up for a school report.

Awww…

I did find many things that surprised me, but couldn’t find a couple things that surprised me even more. Mom loved to write. She wrote entire conversations she had with my kids when they were small. I can still picture some of them. When I’d go to Rock Valley to pick up whatever kid had been there for a couple days (she always wanted the grandkids to visit separately, so they could be the big cheese and have their grandparent’s undivided attention). She’d have a couple new hand written notebook sheets, (in her beautiful, cursive penmanship) titled, Conversations with Shannon (later Joshua or Adam).

Mother’s Day card made in school…

Starting when they were about 18 months and were rapidly expanding their vocabulary. My kids were very bright. Honest. I should have been doing the same, but never did. You know those hilarious things your little rugrats come up with. Then Hubs would come home from work, and I was busy making supper, doing dishes and laundry, packing lunches, baths, stories and bedtime. That once in a lifetime priceless conversation just disappears from your head. We should all be allowed a few do-overs for that kind of stuff.

Outside of the card…

I couldn’t find any of Mom’s and the kids conversations they had together. Still disappointed and wonder what happened to them, because SHE KEPT EVERYTHING. But I did find lots of things I shake my head about and wonder, why on earth would you save that all these years Mom?

The day my long hair became everlasting pigtails…

Let me give you a few examples. She kept an article from the Rock Valley Bee. There is no date but it has to be 1957 because I’m in first grade. She might have been tickled to see my name in the newspaper. Part of the charm of small town living I guess. As I grew up, she probably prayed every night that my name wouldn’t make the paper again.

Snippets of a young girl’s life in 1957…

Little hand written poems from elementary school which earned me a few ribbons. A sheet of black construction paper that I must have plopped a few drops of paint on helter-skelter, then folded in half and pressed together. Ta-da, a butterfly appeared which also got an award. Yeah, I worked hard for that design. Silly little art projects. Most of which she had Dad make frames and hung them all over the house.

Corny, but Char’s still very special…

Mother’s Day day cards with mimeographed poems for every kid in the class to take home. (I still draw my houses the exact same way). And often still spell my own name wrong. Dennse. Yes, many people think so. Ironic? Doubtful. Prophetic is more like it. A green piece of felt with the outline of a very small ‘Neese’ hand, trimmed with red ribbon for Christmas present to Mom.

There are no words, just check out my name…

Report cards and awards for perfect attendance seem like reasonable mementos to save from my youth. While Mom kept many souvenirs from vacations, the postcards from the Beumer’s vacation and my duplicate activity ticket seem rather odd. But there they were for me to find, which gave me pause several times during the couple weeks while going through every nook & cranny of their old house. Maybe that was her intention. She’s been gone almost 14 years and here I am. Writing about the odd items saved for decades after her innocent little girl had long since moved on.

The gang who lived across the street. The picture side is 2 poodles and it’s got a squeaker inside…

But I really appreciate her thoroughness in saving so many different things of mine (many are actually worthless, but conjure all kinds of emotions when I spot them sitting around my house now). I wish I could say the same thing about saving things for my kids when they were little. I had some good intentions.

A budding artist-not….

I had nice baby books for all three kids, and I wrote a goodly amount in each one. All the usual stuff, rolling over, scooting, cooing, first words, snippets of their first haircut, how incredibly bright and beautiful each one was. One year I bought 3 huge Tupperware containers. Started putting awards, little shoes, special outfits, sports memorabilia in the tub for each one of them.

See, I did love school…

Pales in comparison though to Mom’s willingness to-go-over-the-top. She had my hair cut pretty short before I started kindergarten. She saved both pigtails. Took one of my rather adorable baby pictures and plopped the pigtails inside the frame 60 years ago. Dad made the frame, which was falling apart, and Mom used rubber bands on the ends of each pigtail. Which literally disintegrated after half a century. So the klutzy one took it upon myself to ‘fix’ my pigtail picture. Got a new frame and decided ribbon tied into tiny bows would last longer. In the process, I lost about a third of my pigtail hair though. It seems after all these years and and stark realization of uselessness of most items, I too am hesitant to toss any of it. I will leave those decisions to my kids after I’m gone. I can picture them going through tubs in the basement, shaking their heads and wondering why on earth would mom ever keep this stuff all these years…

Mom’s idea, but I now think it’s pretty neat…

This story began in 1962 when I was 11. I woke up one morning with a fat lip and aching face. Since I wasn’t really ‘sick’ (fever/vomiting/sore throat) Mom made me comfortable for the day with instructions to walk to Doc Hegg’s office at 9 to find out what was going on. Then she headed for work.

Soon I would have my first false tooth…

Doc Hegg’s office was just a couple blocks away, but the walk seemed longer than when I turned left at Main Street to buy some candy or a Bismarck at the Bakery. Doc’s office was north on Main, close to churches and residential neighborhoods, almost out of the business district. I opened his office door to the 3 sided/u-shaped booth seating waiting room and found a spot. There were several folks in front of me which always made it worse. Waiting. Pretty much with the realization that a penicillin shot was the first order of business after Doc opened the door and said, “next.” If everyone looked at me, then they had come in after me. My turn. Gulp. Although I loved Doc Hegg, he was kind of gruff, plus I didn’t like shots. But I hated being sick worse.

Doc Hegg’s office. Home of the penicillin shot…

Doc (smoking. Yes, really) looked and felt around my mouth, (wearing no gloves), mumbled something incoherent, got out the dreaded syringe. Gave me the penicillin shot (I figured) and told me to go Doc Schroeder’s office (a couple doors south) right now. Doc Schroeder was Rock Valley’s dentist. I went to him at least once a year when our entire elementary marched 4 blocks from school to have him check everyone’s teeth. But I didn’t know him like I knew Doc Hegg because my tonsils kept me well acquainted with Hegg until they were taken out around the same time as this fat lip.

Doc Hegg around 1965…

Folks going to Doc Schroeder usually had an appointment whereas Doc Hegg was more like today’s urgent care office. Doc Schroeder heard me creak up his waiting room steps. After a couple minutes, his inner door opened and he stuck his head out, raising his eyebrows in question. “Doc Hegg told me to come over after he gave me a shot. My mouth hurts and is swollen, but it’s not my tonsils this time,” I stammered. “It’s going to be a little while,” he said as he closed the door. More waiting.

When Doc Schroeder finally had time to squeeze me in, he inspected my teeth and mouth thoroughly, wearing no gloves. He had the neatest dental cabinet he kept rifling through. Rows of tiny drawers, some only a couple inches in height. One of them obviously holding just the right tool needed to fix me up and send me on my way. I wanted to go home, lay down and watch soap operas. But Doc looked concerned and said finally, “Denise, I need to speak with your mother. Please tell her call me as soon as she can.”

Doc Schroeder, the good dentist…

After Doc talked to Mom, she told me I had an abscess on my tooth. I would have to have my tooth pulled and a false one put in its place. Gross. And it was gonna cost a lot of money and take time. First he drilled a hole in the back of my bothersome tooth to relieve the pressure. Didn’t hurt but tasted terrible. There was no lab to send out my impression, Doc did all the work himself. Bridged the false tooth to the tooth next to it. All surrounded by solid 10 carat gold. Wow. (Mom would make payments for several months to pay for all this gold in my mouth. And I’m not sure why a root canal was never discussed as far as I knew. Either Doc didn’t do them or Mom vetoed going to a specialist. Root canals were discovered/invented already by the early 60’s right?) Doc was honest with Mom, telling her this was just the beginning issues in my mouth. My teeth were not good and I would most likely have dentures at a very young age. From that moment I made a vow to myself that I would do whatever possible to keep my hopeless, soft, abscess prone teeth as long as I could. Half a century later, I’m still trying to make good on that promise.

For many years there just wasn’t enough money to spend on my teeth. Thus by the time I made an appointment because the pain was unbearable, it was too late to save that particular tooth. But eventually there were some root canals, and a couple of bridges. Enough to keep me chewing steak. But the problems continued. About 10 years ago I was eating a piece of pie (sounds innocent enough, right?) at my dear friend Pat’s house when one of my fragile teeth collided with a stray cherry pit, up close and personal. Immediately I felt a couple of strange somethings floating around my mouth. The pit and a tooth. Well shit. My heart sunk. By now I knew this was gonna cost me a couple grand. Sure enough, a root canal and a crown, $ 2200.

My dear, late friend Pat (pie baker) with her daughter Lisa…

Since Doc Schroeder, I’ve had my share of dentists as we moved around. Some were excellent, some hopeless. One guy from Spencer hummed as he worked (he thought he was cool too). I can remember him working on a troublesome root canal and humming Blue Bayou with Linda Ronstadt. (Why in heaven’s name do I remember that?) One of my favorite dentists, Doug Castleberry from Davenport was killed by his bat shit crazy wife about 5 years after our family of 5 became his patients. I wrote a blog about it called “Murder she Wrote” in October of 2015. We lived in North Muskegon for 22 years. I had 3 different dentists, and a couple of specialists. One of the 3 had his license taken away after we stopped going to him I think. Doing unnecessary work, maybe insurance fraud. Ugh, a neighbor had recommended him. The reason my front tooth has bugged me ever since. The filling he put in was about as far from a close match as ebony & ivory. The other 2 dentists were good but expensive.

Right before we moved to Jackson, the cherry pit root canal tooth broke off at my gum line, so it lasted about 8 years for my 2,200 bucks. I found a dentist in Jackson who wanted $4,600. to pull the remainder of the tooth and insert an implant. Over the years that would be 6 grand for one tooth. I just couldn’t. My sister-in-law Mary Jane came to my rescue and suggested I use her dentist. She winters in Yuma, Arizona and uses a dentist in Los Algodones, Mexico which is about 20 minutes from Yuma.

This is hard to describe. The parking lot before you cross over into Mexico is in California. As soon you head down the cement ramp (a block before the border) there’s almost a carnival type atmosphere. There are vendors everywhere hawking their wares. I’m not talking sombreros, t-shirts or trinkets. The majority are representing either prescription eyeglasses, pharmaceutical medications or DENTISTS. “Need a crown, root canal, implant? We’re 20 dollars cheaper.” Most of them are wearing casual, hospital type uniforms and handing out business cards. It’s just odd. Not marketing or advertising like we’re used to. They’re all very polite, but you just have to keep walking and saying, “no thank you.”

Mary Jane’s dentist is about 3 blocks further in town. To get there you must traverse the gauntlet through a plethora of vendors. No easy task, (think American Ninja Warriors tv program). Not quite in the middle of the street, but close to it. They’re everywhere. Jewelry, carved wooden animals, clothing, throws, watches, purses, leather goods, luggage, glassware, you name it. Someone’s trying to make a living by convincing me to buy something. And Les knows most of them by name and they all recognize him. He makes the best deals. But not this time. He and Jane know once I get in the office (without an appointment BTW) it’s gonna be awhile, so no shopping yet.

Dr. Ramos dental office. Marco works upstairs by the sign…

My dentist’s name is Marco. He’s in his early 40’s I think, speaks pretty good English, is very patient when trying to explain how he thinks we should proceed. I tell him about my hearing loss and that I had my broken tooth pulled a month earlier. He suggests a bridge and some crowns on my bottom teeth. I ask how much? Six crowns, 1 bridge, umm $1610. Yup, let’s do it. I end up in the chair over 3 hours. Temporaries are in place, permanent stuff will be back from the lab in a week. Numb, Hubs leads me outside where we all head to have some nachos and a margarita (which dribbles down my numb chin). No shopping for me, they’re all tired of waiting for me to get done. Thus, I hardly ever get to shop, cause they’re all shopped out while I’m being drilled to death.

When the permanent teeth are cemented in, Doc Marco takes some pictures. I assume it’s because he’s proud of his work and wants to use the pics as one of his success stories. But Marco starts clucking his tongue as he clicks. He doesn’t want to use these photos to toot his own horn. He shows me the pictures. Yikes! Yup, he just might be hawking his wares here too. He has the neatest way of saying, “Misss-sezz,” when he’s trying to make a point. (The “sezzz” is about an octave lower, almost condescending, but endearing). “Your bottom looks great, (he’s taking teeth here) but you have some decay under the bridges on top. See? You should come back next year. Think about it Misss-sezzz. Little bit more expensive.” Oh criminy.

Marco on the right…

From that day forward, I knew I’d be back to have my top redone (I’m talking teeth here). One little nagging problem. The new bridge he already put in. Probably should have had my tooth removed 2 months before I traveled to Yuma. My gum has receded some more where the tooth was, leaving a gap under the false tooth. My fault, and it bugs me.

This year I knew the work would be even more extensive and expensive so I called ahead and made an appointment. Marco smiled when he saw I came back, put his gloved hand on my forearm and said, “Misss-sezzz.” Took some x-rays, came back with his proposal (again-top teeth). Clean out the decay and replace 2 antiquated bridges, crowns on my two fronts (from the color ebony & ivory). He was ready to start drilling his way through the bridges when he noticed the gap on last years bottom bridge. “Umm, I don’t like-a-this. It’s not-a-your fault, it’s not-a-my fault. Does it bother you,” he asked? “It drives me insane! I can get half a steak caught under there,” I said. “Then I replace, no charge, ok,” he answered, matter of fact.

I spent a lot of time in this chair…

The work did not go as smoothly as last year. Old bridge work makes things difficult it seems. Instead of 2 trips to Mexico it took 4 before the permanents were acceptable for Marco and me. He said the biggest problem/challenge was the spot from my first false tooth all those years ago. When it was all said and done, Marco pointed out his little personal touches. “What you think of the color? See how well it matches your bottom teeth. You said you didn’t want everything perfect because your teeth weren’t real straight and you had a small gap between your front teeth. There’s a very slight twist on the edge of that tooth. So what you think Misss-sezzz?”…

The office girls. Show me the money…

Another year has passed. And here we are, back in Arizona for 2 glorious,
warm, sunny weeks. Les and Mary Jane (obviously both gluttons for punishment) issued another invite to us this winter. As an added bonus, John’s oldest brother Jim (and Dee) are spending a couple months here too. Can’t pass up an opportunity like that. None of us are getting any younger and all of our extended warranties are getting closer to their expiration date. Yikes. Gotta bond (which basically means an afternoon margarita or glass of wine, talking and eating, not always in that order) while there’s still time.

Hey Yuma, get that strange little white cloud out of my perfect forecast…

I touched on this story last year after I visited Yuma’s famous, ancient, antiquated Territorial Prison. You all certainly remember my vivid interpretation of that great story, right? Hmm, just as I thought, you missed my cleverly named, 3:10 to Yuma in February, 2017. Let me refresh. The Prison was built (by its own prisoners) in 1876 and used over 30 years. It was a horrible, hot, dangerous hellhole, but at the time, it was the best there was, (the prison boasted electric fans and a couple of showers-almost unheard of back then) considering Arizona was not yet a state. Fast forward to the early 1900’s and there’s an announcement that a new prison is being built in Florence, so Yuma’s Territorial Prison was closing.

Yuma’s Territorial Prison, housing 6 in this small cubicle…

Yuma, (population now about 85,000 without the Snowbirds which double the size for a few months every winter) was still a small town. In dire need of educating their youth. So they opened a high school downtown (3 rooms and 4 teachers) which would celebrate a dozen graduating seniors that first year. All good, except for the raging fire which took out the new school after 1 year. What to do, what to do?

Yeah, I’ll meet you in Algebra…

Yuma decided to use the old, closed down Territorial Prison to hold classes while they discussed financing and location to build another school. High school classes were held in the cell blocks and assemblies held in the prison hospital. I. Kid. You. Not. Gospel. Truth.

Ha-ha, this just tickles me…

Thus, for a few years Yuma’s Territorial Prison was actually Yuma Union High School. Guess what? The city then informed the high school they needed the Territorial Prison back. To use for a jail. Poor high school kids were getting the boot from the old Prison. Low. Seriously low. Not to worry. A new school was already in the works, and is still in the same location where it was built about 100 years ago.

The Welcome Mat…

A couple years later, the Yuma High School football team is playing for the state championship. The game is against their nemesis, the Phoenix Union High Coyotes. When Yuma’s team surges ahead, the Coyote fans/student section start howling, “Criminals, Criminals!” Well heck, them’s fightin words. Or not. Maybe at first Yuma was insulted, but not for long. Instead, soon the little Yuma High School embraced the brash nickname. And it stuck. The Criminals name was officially adopted by the school board in 1917 (same year my Dad was born). Most often affectionately shortened to just the “Crims.”

This is indeed, the longest yard…

Hubs and I drove to Yuma High School this week. I had become so infatuated with the story behind the Criminals, I decided some ‘Crims wear’ was needed before we head back to Snowsville. We found a parking spot by the front door with a huge lit sign sporting Yuma High School—Proud Home of the Criminals. Wandered around, finding nothing close to an office or administration. Just classrooms filled with students-er-Criminals. As far as we could tell there was a severe lack of security-had we been up to no good.

The championship that introduced a new mascot…

Out one building, into another, still no one checking on us. Then again, 2 old folks slowly wandering around, carrying nothing but a good looking Michael Kors bag hardly look very sinister. And we are in the midst of 1,200 hardened Criminals. Finally an adult spots us. I explain we are here to visit ‘The Cell Block.’ He hesitates, then says, “I don’t think the store is open right now, but I can show you where the office is located. Maybe they can help.” He points to the administration door and gives us a wave.

Middle of the basketball court…

After waiting for a couple students to get tardy passes, it’s our turn. The attendance gal hems & haws at our request, then sends us along to the main receptionist at the front desk named Gabby. (Only fitting as she answered numerous phone calls while dealing with this-strange-old-out-of-state-and-touch-couple). Gabby wore a slight frown as she listened to my sad lament, “Um, we just wanna buy a couple T-shirts for our grandkids.” “Well,” she began, “The Cell Block is only open during lunch, on Fridays, 11-12:30.” One of the office girls within hearing distance said, “but not this Friday, Gabby, there’s a conflict, remember?” The frown deepened on Gabby’s pretty face. “Oh that’s right, I forgot. I’m sorry,” she stated weakly. “I guess I could call our athletic director and see if she’s willing to open the store for a few minutes. Would that be ok?” “That would be just great,” I squealed, snapping pictures furiously, afraid we’d be ushered right out the front door.

The back of John’s t-shirt…

Not 2 minutes later we’re accompanied through the now unlocked ‘Cell Block’ door by a gal in khakis and a Crims navy shirt. Didn’t get her name, dang it. She was upbeat, polite, informative and ready to help us with our purchase. With stipulations. She had no way of making change, they didn’t accept credit cards, but would happily take my cash or a check. I nabbed (maybe not the best word choice) shirts for Peyton, Landon, Graham, Hubs and me. Plus a keychain. She went through an entire box of ‘Criminal’ onesies, looking for a size 24 months for Jovi, but 18 mo. was the largest size they carried in pink. Asked if we had looked for clothes at Walmart? Duh, our first stop, but I didn’t see one item with anything associated with the Crims. “Well, that’s actually good news for us. The Yuma High School ‘Criminals’ is the only high school in America whose mascot is copyrighted,” she continued, swelling with pride. “When Walmart sells “Criminal” gear, the high school doesn’t get one penny. It’s just not right,” she complained.

The high school & faculty at Yuma’s Territorial Prison, 1913…

Since 1917 the Criminals from Yuma High have had to defend their unusual nickname numerous times. Townsfolk, parents, political correctness, newcomers who think the name-Criminals and their tough-guy mascot face is totally inappropriate. But the school’s faculty, board and especially the students hold a tremendous amount of pride stemming from their quirky name and history. Never cave, never give in. Defending it above all to parents, and fans. The high school carries enormous pride in their heritage and background.

What an endearing little face…

Part of the football field’s entrance contain bars from the original Territorial Prison. Yuma’s oldest high school is not about to change their name or lamely try to re-write history. That certainly is not who they are. They are proud and bear their name, The Criminals with more pride than I’ve seen in a lot of schools. So now you know the rest of the story. Go Crims…

The place to buy the coolest clothes…